


John's Secret

by thelookyouredoingthelookagain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, John has a secret, M/M, PWP, Riding Crop, Sentiment, Sherlock Is So Naive Sometimes, Sherlock gets jealous, Vatican Cameos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-22
Updated: 2014-08-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 08:57:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1976853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelookyouredoingthelookagain/pseuds/thelookyouredoingthelookagain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Woman piqued John's curiosity. What John did next piqued Sherlock's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John Experiments

**Author's Note:**

> All works here were produced by two friends in the fandom. One writes as SH and one as John, and we edit together. Our characters are based on the BBC's _Sherlock_ , though we don't mind playing a little loosely with canon and the occasional AU. We have whims and like to follow them. While we like to torture our boys with constant misunderstandings, we know they belong together and we always see to that.
> 
> All posted works are complete, and we hope there will be something for everyone. Please take a look at our other works. Just a note, though, there's pretty much always going to be smut. Sometimes fluff, sometimes angst, but always smut. We can't help it: that's just the way we are.
> 
> We plan to add new work each weekend, so please subscribe. 
> 
> We also really appreciate the kudos and comments --they mean so much. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!

It had all started with Irene. At least, that's what John liked to tell himself because it made the most sense. At the palace he'd been so intrigued by the idea that he'd frozen in place, but luckily they all thought it was for a very different reason. In the midst of trying to help Sherlock solve the case and trying to protect him from that woman, he'd been doing research. He would change his password everyday, and twice a day when he started actually communicating with someone. He wasn't so much afraid of Sherlock finding out he liked this sort of thing, but more Sherlock's finding out about the fact that he was going to see a man about it. 

When the night finally came, John dressed up as if he had a date. He came downstairs trying to act as normally as he could, moving to grab his jacket. "I'm going out," he called. Sherlock was looking into his microscope so John figured that he probably didn't even hear him, and more importantly, wouldn't even notice he'd left until he came home later. 

Sherlock heard John leave but did not acknowledge it. John had been acting different all week. Sherlock knew that, wherever John was going, it was not usual. It piqued Sherlock's curiosity, of course, but he did his best to restrain himself: John obviously did not want to talk about it so he should respect that. But this in and of itself piqued his curiosity even more. Why didn't John want to share? He and Sherlock were friends, yes, not just colleagues? Perhaps John assumed Sherlock already knew what was going on. Perhaps he had been leaving clues for Sherlock. This was a dilemma.

Two hours later John came home, nervous to go upstairs. Sherlock was sure to figure it out. There were marks on his wrists from the restraints, marks on his arms and back from the riding crop, and he was sure his arse was still red from the hitting. Not that Sherlock would see those things, but John felt every one of them. He was also limping slightly, trying to get used to the after effect of bottoming. He climbed the steps slowly, came into a thankfully dark flat and went straight for the stairs, not even bothering to remove his coat.

Sherlock was in his room when he heard John come in. He waited but John did not call for him. John did not do anything at all actually except go to his room. Sherlock thought for a moment about privacy, about how John's extraordinary control of his laptop recently clearly meant John wanted privacy. But Sherlock also knew that John did not like secrets, he always wanted Sherlock to tell him everything. That was what was making this thing so intriguing: John was the one with a secret. Sherlock called out, "John, could you come in here for a moment?"

John froze the base of the stairs. "Um. . . . can it wait until morning, Sherlock?"

"I'd rather it not," Sherlock said. "Unless it must."

John tugged his sleeves down a bit, wondering if he should insist on it waiting. He walked over to the door of his room and peeked in. "Yes?"

"Come in, please," Sherlock requested.

"I'm kinda tired," John said quietly, still hovering around the door.

"Please, John," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. "I need to talk to you about something." Sherlock felt a mix of anxiety and annoyance. He felt like if he could just see John, he'd know if the secret was something Sherlock should investigate or just leave alone.

John's stomach dropped a bit. He really should have insisted it wait until morning. He walked further into the room and looked up at Sherlock. "What's going on?"

Sherlock inspected John who seemed not to want to hold Sherlock's gaze. "Why has your limp returned?"

John flushed. "It hasn't . . . I just hit it while I was out -- it's still just a bit sore," he said. 

This was a lie, Sherlock knew. He also felt fairly certain that John knew that Sherlock knew it was a lie. But John offered no more explanation. "John," Sherlock said simply. "Would you say we are close? As in, close friends? The kind of close friends who do not keep secrets from each other?"

"Yes," John nodded. "But I also know we can have things we don't wish to talk about . . ." 

Sherlock filed this comment away for future use. "I see," Sherlock said. "Then that is all I needed to know." He paused. "I hope you found your evening enlightening. I shall see you in the morning." He leaned over and turned off the lamp before slumping back on his bed, turning away from the door. He did this even though he knew he wouldn't be going to sleep anytime soon.

"Um, right. Yes . . . good night," John said, turning and leaving his room. He headed for the stairs again, hanging his coat up as he passed the hook.

Sherlock spent the night trying to suss John's secret. Yes, he respected John's privacy; however, this felt different. What kind of secret causes a person to be afraid to be seen? What kind of secret causes a limp? He thought and thought until he fell to asleep, waking when he heard the flat door slam shut. Sherlock got up to find a note from John, saying he wouldn't be back until the evening. Sherlock stretched to wake himself up. He glanced at John's laptop but decided against investigating it. Instead he went to John's bedroom. His bed was made, as usual. Sherlock stood over it and smoothed his hand across the top. He had an urge to slip into it, but when he lifted the duvet, he saw blood on the sheets. This was definitely a different kind of secret.

Sherlock went out to check his phone. No messages.

_Whatever is wrong, please let me help. SH_

One of the agreements about John working with this dom was that he could be called upon whenever he was wanted. Doing something like this in the middle of the day seemed a bit intense to John, but he couldn't say no. He didn't want to say no. Barely healed from the night before John went and had another go. When they were done and he was leaving, he found the message.

_Nothing is wrong, I promise. -JW_

_I'll be at the surgery for a bit. -JW_

John went to his office, told Sarah he was only there to do some paperwork and closed himself in. He put some cream on his bruises and sat very gingerly at his desk. 

Sherlock read the messages. John had written. _Nothing is wrong. I promise_. John would not promise something if it were a lie, Sherlock felt almost certain of that.

Yet if nothing was wrong, that meant there was something _right_ about there being blood on John's bed.

Sherlock felt enormously confused. He was confused about what was wrong and what was right. About which secrets were allowed and which ones weren't. He also felt confused about something that he had previously believed: that he was the most important person in John's life. Was this what was bothering him the most: the fact that John had a secret with someone other than Sherlock?

This was all upsetting the balance he had grown used to in their relationship. He picked up his phone.

_I went into your room. There is blood on your sheets. You are allowed to have secrets, I know. But this one concerns me. SH_

And he hit Send before he could regret his honesty.

John's eyes widened at the message, and he took several deep breaths before replying. 

_Why did you go into my room? I told you everything is fine. -JW_

_Please don't be cross. Things don't seem fine, John. Have you hurt yourself? Please. Don't make me worry. SH_

_I haven't hurt myself, Sherlock. I appreciate your concern, really, but everything is fine. -JW_

_Is someone else hurting you? SH_

John stared at the message. Saying no now, after Sherlock had seen the blood, would be very silly. How would he explain that? Convince Sherlock he was hurting himself? The lies would be pathetic and even more embarrassing than the truth. Perhaps he could avoid it -- tell him only half truths and hope that he'd leave it alone. 

_Not on purpose. -JW_

_I do not find that answer satisfactory. Why is he hurting you? SH_

John's eyes fixed on 'he' for a long time before he typed back an answer. 

_It doesn't matter. It's not going to happen again. -JW_

_Why not? You said everything was fine. Perhaps it has already happened again. SH_

_Everything_ is _fine, Sherlock. Just let it go, please.-JW_

_I don't want to let it go. I don't like the idea of someone else hurting you. Of someone else. SH_

John stared at the message. He didn't like the thought of someone else? John had never said he was dating . . . but then Sherlock was always a bit weird about dates. Maybe Sherlock assumed John was meeting another friend -- a friend Sherlock didn't know about. But would that sort of thing make him jealous? Was John putting too much into it?

_It's not what you think, okay? You have to trust me.-JW_

John sent the message and grabbed his coat. He couldn't stay in his office forever, but what was going to happen when he got home? Perhaps he should just tell Sherlock who he was meeting. He had no right to judge him, after all. It would be embarrassing but this lying couldn't continue.

_I have absolutely no idea what I think so your response does not reassure. SH_

_I do trust you. I wish that you trusted me. SH_

John flushed at the message, feeling guilty all of a sudden. 

_I do trust you, Sherlock. I'm just embarrassed. -JW_

John winced at the wording. Why should he be embarrassed about something he enjoyed? 

_I lied. I'm not embarrassed. It's just not an easy thing to talk about. -JW_

_Very few things are easy for me to talk about, John. But I do. To you. SH  
_

_When will you be home? SH_

_Ten minutes. -JW_

John decided to walk home, already feeling like it was easier than the first day. He hesitated outside again and mentally prepared himself for the conversation he was about to have with Sherlock. As he climbed up the stairs, he tried to think of the perfect way to word it. 

_I am in my room. The lights are off and do not need to be turned on if darkness would be beneficial. I would like for you to come talk to me. I will accept it if you do not. SH_

John read the message as he hung his coat up, slowly making his way to Sherlock's room. He stood in the door frame. He knew he didn't want them to keep secrets from each other.

Sherlock was much relieved when he heard John outside his door. At least momentarily. He felt so uncomfortable not knowing something and it made it a thousand times worse that he had spent so much of the last twenty hours trying to figure things out. It was so different to the normal dynamics of John and Sherlock's interactions: it was almost always Sherlock knowing and John asking. But now at least, hopefully, John would talk and Sherlock would understand.

"I've been . . . I've been seeing someone," he started. His finger slid across the red mark on his wrist. 

Sherlock felt a little sick at John's opening line. Thankfully, the lights were out so John couldn't tell. He wouldn't be able to explain his reaction. Or perhaps he could but didn't want to. It was the verb 'seeing'. One doesn't say 'I've been seeing my bank manager.' There are only two groups of people that one might be 'seeing' -- medical professionals and lovers.

But John had assured him everything was fine, so it seems less likely this was a medical issue. In the past with the women, John had used the word 'dating.' This was different -- something much, much different. Selfishly but truthfully, Sherlock wasn't sure which option -- health or heart -- would have been easier for him to face. He sat up abruptly from the bed.

"I've changed my mind -- I've bullied you into it. You do not have to say anymore unless you are sure you actually want to. If you'd prefer it never be mentioned again, it will not be," Sherlock said to the darkness.

John looked up now, trying to see Sherlock's face. "I don't want you to be upset," he said. 

"You needn't worry about me, John. The blood threw me, but you seem fine, you say you're fine. Clearly, this has absolutely nothing to do with me and I am sorry I interfered," Sherlock tried to sound calm and detached but was sure he did not.

"You don't sound fine," John said softly. He was feeling guilty again. 

"I said _you_ were fine. That's all I was worried about. You said last night that we each have things we don't wish to talk about. I should have respected that. If you had wanted to share this with me, you would have. I'm sorry."

John nodded. "Thank you," he said quietly. 

"You can keep this secret for as long as you like. I do not need to be told who he is or where you are going or how you are spending your time. It's your life. It has nothing to do with me. We're flatmates after all, right? You don't owe me any. . . thing."

"Don't, Sherlock. Don't say it like that," John said sadly, looking up at Sherlock again. "You're my friend, you know that."

"Quite frankly, John, I feel very much like I do not understand what is going on," Sherlock said. How had this turned into Sherlock's confession? "My head is very . . . muddled."

"How can you tell me that you don't even know if we can be friends while I have this secret and then tell me I don't have to tell you?" John asked desperately. "My secret is not more important to me than you, Sherlock." 

"I didn't mean . . . I don't know . . . you know that I am limited in my experience of friendship," Sherlock was struggling to say the words he meant. "I liked things how they were. I liked it when you told me things. When our friendship was the most important thing, it seemed, in our lives. But now I worry that I got things wrong again and I feel foolish and don't know how to . . . be, I don't know what you want me to be to you."

"I want you to be my friend," John said. He moved into the room and sat down on the edge of the bed. "If you want me to tell you what I've been doing, I will. But you can't . . . you can't say anything."

Sherlock leaned back on the bed. The darkness made him feel safer about the strange way this conversation had gone, but also slightly anxious about what was going to come next. "I won't say anything," he promised.

John took several deep breaths, wringing his hands before finally speaking. "I've been seeing a dominant," he said quietly. 

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak but then stopped himself. He had promised.

John waited, his heart slamming in his chest. "I meant don't make fun of me," he said. "Say something!" He couldn't stand the silence any longer. 

"And you trust this person?"

"What?" John asked, surprised by the question. "I . . . it's his job," he shrugged. 

Sherlock was puzzled. He was genuinely confused. "Do you . . . pay him?"

John flushed and was very thankful for the dark. "They don't do it for free," he mumbled. 

"That seems . . ." Sherlock wanted to pick the right word, one he meant but wouldn't seem like he was making fun, "odd."

"I know," John said. 

"Why would you pay a stranger?"

"I -- I told you they don't do it for free. I was curious and . . . and I found someone to -- to do it," John said.

"That's the bit I don't understand. I can understand the curiosity. But I don't understand why you would turn to someone you did not know."

John looked up now, confused by the remark. "Who else would I have asked? I can hardly ask any one I know to -- to do that," he said.

"I have to be honest, John," Sherlock said. "Asking someone you know seems a lot more sensible than asking a complete stranger who will only oblige if money changes hands."

"No, Sherlock. It's not sensible to ask your friends to tie you up and -- " John cut off suddenly and shook his head. "It's not."

"John," Sherlock said gently, reaching out in the darkness for John's hand. "I hope you do not regret that you told me. I know this isn't about me, but I am glad I know the secret."


	2. Sherlock Experiments

Sherlock let go of John's hand and lay back against the bed's headboard again. Sherlock was thinking. He was thinking about many, many things. He sat quietly thinking until he realised perhaps he had been quiet a little too long. So he said, "I take it you found what you were looking for, then . . . since you made a return visit?"

John tensed when Sherlock touched him, holding his hand. But it didn't last long and alternately he missed it when it was gone. "How did you --? Um . . . yeah," he said quietly. "He's good. The deal is he can request me any time and I -- I have to go," he explained.

"I see. And you think you'll continue this?"

"I like it," he said, looking down at his hands.

"I appreciate that. However," Sherlock said with a bit of cheek. "This does present a problem. I was under the impression that you and I were already in a similar arrangement: in the past when I have requested you, at any time, you have always come to me. _His_ presence may complicate that."

"He knows I can't leave work," John said.

"Still," said Sherlock. "I'm not sure I like not always having you at my fingertips. I suppose . . . you must find the experience worth it, though. What does he do to you?"

"Oh, Sherlock, please don't make me say," John groaned, hiding his face in his hands now.

"I can't make you do anything, can I? At least not until you pay me," Sherlock said smiling. Then he reached out and touched John's hand again. "I'm teasing you." He stroked the top of John's hand lightly, before letting just his fingertips brush John's wrist where he felt the rough skin. "Of course, you don't have to tell me," he said quietly. Then his voice changed tone slightly, "Unless you want to tell me. And something . . . makes me think you actually would like me to know."

John flushed darkly. He cleared his throat. "What . . . what makes you say that?" he asked quietly.

"Everyday since I've known you, I have seen you working on your laptop. Yet recently you close it the minute I come in the room. Surely you knew that is something I would notice. When you left the other evening, you could have left as you normally leave -- but you didn't -- and you could have returned as you normally return -- but you didn't. Of course, all of this piqued got my attention. I think you wanted it to."

John shook his head. "I was going to keep it a secret," he said. "I was afraid to tell you."

"Why? I thought you said you trusted me."

"I do. But this sort of thing . . . " John shrugged. "It's awkward."

"You needn't feel awkward, John. You know how much you mean to me. I would never judge you. I understand that this is private; I suppose you and I don't talk much sex-related things. But I am always willing to listen or talk. I am always willing to try."

"Does it matter, the things he does to me?" John asked softly.

"It matters to you. And what matters to you often seems to matter to me."

John hesitated again, pulling his hand away so he could nervously wring his fingers again. "He ties me up . . . uses a riding crop on me. He uses his hand sometimes . . . um . . . makes me suck him off. He's got . . . toys until he's ready for me. He says a lot of mean things . . . " John shrugged and trailed off. He was sure he was going to burst into flames. 

"I see," Sherlock said again. "And what is in your head while this is happening?"

"I'm not thinking anything. I focus on the rules . . . and I guess how good it feels. Giving up control is . . . more exhilarating than I expected," John said. It was getting a bit easier to talk about it.

"Hmm," Sherlock was thinking aloud. "I don't know that I see the attraction. I like control. Giving that up does not appeal to me. However, I suppose I can see why you like it." He paused, "If you don't mind me saying, though, I am surprised that you enjoy the pain."

John shrugged. "In the right setting," he admitted.

"Still, a psychosomatic limp would indicate you see pain as a weakness. Is that what you feel at the time? Weak? Or is the reverse -- a strength in taking it?"

"There's pleasure, Sherlock. I sit through it like a good boy and I get rewarded," he said, flushing at how easily that came out.

Sherlock nodded, "Of course. That makes much more sense. You and I are very different people, John Watson."

"Well, that's been obvious from the beginning, hasn't it?" John said softly.

"I suppose so," Sherlock said. "I spent much of my childhood being rewarded for taking pain like a good boy. Probably not the same kind of pain, but still. I am not interested in experiencing that again. And certainly not paying to experience it. But you are different." Sherlock reached over and stroked the back of John's neck, thinking that it might be safer to touch there than on John's back. "Maybe that is why we are a good pair."

John closed his eyes at the touch as goosebumps erupted all over. "I've always been in charge . . .my house when my dad left, in the army, patients at the office . . . I get tired of it sometimes," John said quietly.

"So we each take pleasure in the less familiar. Perhaps we aren't so different." Sherlock was enjoying touching John, who had not asked him to stop.

John nodded and the movement made Sherlock's hands more apparent. He cleared his throat and moved slightly. He couldn't let his feelings get in the way now. He'd already given up on those kinds of thoughts about Sherlock, but this touching wasn't helping, especially in the context of this conversation.

Sherlock continued stroking John's neck, occasionally letting his fingertips slip into John's hair. "Is that why you always come when I call, John? Because you like giving me control?" Sherlock's voice was almost a whisper.

John flushed, taking a deep breath. "Sherlock . . ." The conversation had taken a dangerous turn.

"Perhaps that is why I always call you, because I like the control. Or is it because I just seem to _need_ you so often?" Sherlock had shifted his body closer so his voice was near John's ear.

John turned his head slightly, shivering at the sound of his voice so close. "I can't . . ." he said quietly, absolutely no resolve in his voice. He was already lost.

Sherlock pressed his mouth onto John's ear, not kissing it exactly, just opening and closing his lips over it so that his soft skin brushed John's. His hand had now slid into John's hair, tangling it in between his long fingers.

"Sherlock," John shuddered, squeezing his eyes shut. "Please," he breathed and even he heard how needy it sounded . . . how needy _he_ sounded.

"Please . . . what? Tell me what you are pleading with me to do?" Sherlock's voice was a low growl in John's ear.

John whimpered softly. "Make me yours," he whispered.

"I can't, John," Sherlock slid his hand down John's back firmly but not harshly. "Because now you are _his_." He flicked his tongue against John's ear.

John sighed and nodded. "I -- I can stop," he said.

"But you have already made it clear that you do not want to stop." Sherlock pulled on John's hair, bringing his head back. He reached over to lick up John's neck. "So we are in a delicate situation. And the only solution would be for me to stop this." He nipped John's neck. "I should stop, shouldn't I, John? That would be what _he_ would want, don't you think?"

"I -- I don't care what he wants," John said quietly. "I . . . wanted it to be you from -- from the beginning. But there's . . . sentiment." he whispered.

"And sentiment spoils it?" Sherlock moved one of his hands to John's thigh. "Is that right? Is that why you go to a stranger to get what you need?"

"I was worried it would . . . complicate things," John admitted. He took a few deep breaths, needing to get this out. "It's hard to hit someone you love -- I mean, if you were to feel the same."

"If there's one thing you have taught me, John, it's that sentiment adds to both pleasure and pain. I am well aware of my feelings and I am well aware of what I will and will not do. But I am not a stranger you found on the Internet -- there are fewer risks, fewer complications actually. Because of how I feel about you, you know I will take care of you. You know you can trust me," Sherlock shifted his body slightly, sliding his hand up John's thigh. "You have no idea what I'm going to do to you next, but you know it will be all be all right."

John nodded. "I do trust you," he murmured. He wanted to hear Sherlock say the words -- he wanted to say them back to Sherlock.

"Good." Sherlock lifted his hand from John's leg and pushed against his chest, pushing him against the bed. "Turn over," he commanded.

John nodded and did as he was told, laying flat on his stomach.

Sherlock wrapped his hands around John's ankles and slowly slid his palms up the back of John's legs, feeling for any reactions from John, testing to see where the other man had hurt him. When he got to John's lower back, he said, "Remove your shirt." After John slipped it over his head, Sherlock inspected his back. Tenderly, he kissed John's wounds as he moved his face up his back. Sherlock was now on his hands and knees over John. He lowered his head and, behind John's ear, whispered, "It is easy to hit a stranger. It's harder to hit someone you love. But it feels good to give someone you love what they want." He slipped John's ear into his mouth, sucking first before biting it. "However," he said firmly. "I will _not_ say mean things to you. If that is essential, you need to tell me now and this ends."

John closed his eyes and memorised every kiss, humming softly as each one happened. He called out softly when Sherlock bit him but he shook his head. "It's not necessary," he breathed.

"Good because I don't want to stop, John," Sherlock was purring into his ear now. "But if you change your mind at any time, what are you going to say? Tell me so I know. Do _not_ choose the word you use with him."

John thought about the color system they used and figured this word should be different, something just for them. "Um . . . Vatican cameos," he said.

"Good. You say that and I stop. Until then, I do not intend to stop." Sherlock slid his mouth down John's back, lightly scraping his teeth against the welts. He felt John wince and heard him gasp. Sherlock was surprised that he enjoyed the reaction. When he got to John's hip, he swirled his tongue softly over the flesh, kissed it, and bit until he broke the skin. Sherlock licked away the trace of blood which had come to the surface. He moved back to John's ear. "That is my mark. That is the only mark that matters. It means you belong to me now. His marks will fade. Mine will not."

John moaned when he felt the bite, burying his head into the bed. He lifted it when Sherlock spoke so close to his ear. He nodded quickly, his stomach flipping nervously.

"Put your hands behind your back," Sherlock instructed. He stood and got the belt from his dressing gown. He needed to restrain John but did not want to worsen the marks, that man's marks, already on John's wrists. Sherlock wanted those gone. He carefully shifted John's shoulders and then tied his wrists tightly. John did not say anything. Sherlock stood again and returned with his riding crop. He flicked it through the air, letting John hear the sound before using it to trace a line from the back of John's head to his tied wrists, pressing his bare skin with the leather. And then Sherlock sat down on the bed, not touching John, letting him wait.

John arched against the leather tracing his back and then sighed loudly, turning to look at Sherlock who was simply sitting there. He bit his lip and waited.

Sherlock looked at John looking at him. Without moving from his place, he smacked John's back once, with the riding crop, trying to hit an unmarked space. John lifted his head, but Sherlock said, "Do not look away." Sherlock flicked the crop over John's back a few more times, ending with a hit to the top of his shoulder. He let it rest there, stretching to touch the end of it to John's cheek. "Keep looking at me," he said. "Tell me you love me," he moved the leather down John's cheek to his neck, "but only if you do."

John moaned with each hit, forcing his eyes to stay on Sherlock's, losing him only when he blinked. John nodded. "I love you . . I do love you," he murmured.

Sherlock moved over John's body again. He lowered his face to John's tied hands. He licked up and down each of John's fingers, sucking them into his mouth, biting the tips. And then he loosened the belt and released John's wrists. He slid back to where he had been sitting and told John, "Stand up and take off the rest of your clothes."

John's fingers twitched in Sherlock's mouth and he tried his best not to move them. Then his hands were free and he rubbed his wrists out of habit. He stood up and slid his trousers down, tossing them aside before, a bit hesitantly, removing his pants.

Sherlock walked around John's nude body, investigating the marks, noting. John's arse was red, there were a few welts on his legs, but unlike his back, his chest was mostly unscathed. "Sit down," he told John. Sherlock pushed the dressing gown belt off the bed. "We do not need this anymore," he said. He picked up John's hands in his and placed them on John's thighs. Sherlock's hands rested on John's, his thumbs inches from John's cock. "You are not to move your hands from this spot. You do not have the option of moving them. If you keep them there, you will be rewarded. Say, 'Yes, Sherlock' if you understand that they are as good as tied, John. They are not to move."

John nodded. "Yes, Sherlock." He was nervous. He'd already learned that his self control needed work, hence the tight binds. He squeezed his thighs for extra measure.

"Not too hard to hurt yourself," Sherlock said, noticing John's grip. Sherlock stood in front of John, looking down at his body. He unbuttoned his own shirt and removed it. Then he undid his belt and trouser buttons and slowly took off the rest of his clothes. He stood naked in front of John. He picked up the riding crop with one hand and licked the other. He slid it down to his own cock and began stroking it. As he grew harder, he stepped closer to John. His tip was wet with precome and he ran his fingers over it before smearing them across John's lips. Then Sherlock stepped back again, pulled a chair up to John's knees and sat down. He continued touching himself, all the while holding John's gaze. Then he stopped and leaned back slightly. "Stroke me," he ordered, "like you do to him."

John watched him greedily, his eyes moving everywhere his hands wished they could. He whimpered softly when Sherlock started stroking himself, and then his fingers were on his lips. It took everything inside of him not to suck those fingers into his mouth, but the second he pulled them back John licked his lips. When the order came, John couldn't bring himself to tell Sherlock he was never allowed to touch with his hands. He gripped Sherlock and stroked him like he asked.

At John's touch, Sherlock's head dropped back momentarily. He lifted it again. He picked up the riding crop and brought it to John's cheek, using it to guide John's chin up so their eyes met. "That's a very good boy, John. My rules are different, you do as I say when I say. You don't think whether you should or not, you just do it. My rules change on my whim. You obey them whatever they are." Sherlock kept the riding crop on John's cheek but his other hand went to John's wrist between his legs. He gripped it at the marks and guided it, saying, "More pressure but less speed."

"Yes," John said quietly, gripping Sherlock harder as he slowed his pace.

Sherlock held tight onto John's wrist. "Is my hand hurting you?"

"No," John shook his head.

"Do you want it to?"

 "No," he shook his head. "I want to make you feel good."

"That is an excellent reply," Sherlock said, letting go of John's wrist and petting his head. For a moment he sank into the chair, into the feeling of John touching him. There was a part of him that wanted to stay like this forever. But he also wanted to give John what he needed, he wanted to show John _he_ could be the one to do that. Something inside made Sherlock hate this other man. He knew it was unreasonable, he was only doing a 'job' and undoubtedly cared nothing for John or Sherlock's role in John's life. But still Sherlock hated him: he who knew exactly what he was doing, had all the tools of the trade, even took John's money. Sherlock was competing in a game for which his only advantage it seemed was his stubborn desire to win, to win John. He tried to focus, concentrating on his breath, doing his best to ignore John's hand, before saying, "Stand up and walk to the other side of the bed."

John stroked a couple more time, his fingers lingering as he pulled his hand away and got up. He walked around the bed and stood facing it, facing Sherlock, from the other side. 

"Get onto the bed on all fours," Sherlock commanded, not moving from the chair.

John climbed up onto the bed, crawling forward a bit and looking at Sherlock, shifting lightly as he waited. 

Sherlock slowly stood up. He walked towards the bed and leaned over to speak into John's ear. "The next time we do this, you will be in this position while I fuck you. Do you understand? Will you remember?" He waited for John to nod. "But not today," Sherlock said. "Lie down on your stomach and move closer to me, move towards the edge of the bed."

John lowered himself down flat and pushed against the mattress so that he was closer to Sherlock. 

Sherlock picked up the riding crop and walked to the other side of the bed. He sat down and moved close to John's body. With the riding crop, he smacked each one of John's wounds, starting at his shoulder and moving down. With each hit, Sherlock counted aloud. Sherlock saved his teeth marks for last; he pressed the riding crop against them and said, "Fourteen. You have fourteen marks on your back, John. How many of those marks matter?"

John writhed with each hit, calling out or groaning with each one. "One," he panted. 

"Correct. Now you shall be rewarded. Turn over." John turned onto his back. Sherlock moved to John's body, his head over John's cock. Starting at the base, Sherlock dragged his tongue slowly up and over the tip before moving it across John's belly to his chest. His mouth found John's left nipple which he flicked with his tongue and pulled into his mouth to nuzzle. Then he licked John's chest again and bit into the skin, sucking as he was biting. His head went to John's ear where he growled, " _One_ mark on your chest," before sliding back down the bed and walking over to stand near John's head. "Stretch a little nearer, John, so your head's just off the edge," he commanded. "And then open your mouth."

John moaned as Sherlock licked him all over, arching off of the bed a bit. And then he was gone again and John lay panting, a slight burning on that spot on his chest. Sherlock's spot. John scooted even more so that his head was hanging almost off of the bed and he looked up at Sherlock before opening his mouth. 

Sherlock positioned his body and rubbed his cock against the side of John's face. "Put your hands above your head, John. Find my legs and hold them. Do not let them go." When he felt John's hands on his skin, Sherlock said, "Stick out your tongue and relax." When John did, Sherlock slid his cock into John's mouth so his tongue ran across the bottom of it. He rocked his hips back and forth, moving against John's soft, wet tongue. It felt good. "John," Sherlock said. "Relax your throat. You know what's going to happen now, so when you are ready, squeeze my legs." Sherlock's hips kept rocking as he spoke.

John whimpered at the feel of Sherlock's cock on his face. He resisted turning his head to follow it, to put it into his mouth. John moaned properly, swallowed several times before squeezing Sherlock's legs. 

"That's my good boy, John," Sherlock said. "Now, stop thinking. It doesn't matter what happens next, all you have to do is relax. You are not in control of this, I am, and you know that whatever I do to you, it will be all right." Sherlock leaned into John slowly, pushing in until he hit John's throat. He felt it close and pulled back. "That's good, John, that's all you have to do," he stroked John's hair. "It's better if I go faster, though. Relax now," Sherlock pushed in again, not harder, just faster, and felt himself go further before he pulled back. He did this a few times, finally allowing himself to moan John's name. Then he pulled all the way out and leaned over to kiss John's upside down face. "My good John," he said into John's mouth. "Catch your breath and stand up."

John choked, making a small gagging sound just as Sherlock pulled back again. He panted softly and closed his eyes as Sherlock pet his hair. He opened his mouth wide again around Sherlock again, squeezing his legs again as he moved faster and faster. John couldn't help the gagging sounds escaping his throat, but he loved every second of it. He gasped in a breath when Sherlock pulled out fully, swallowing and itching to wipe the saliva away from his face. As he panted he wiped at his face, sitting up and standing off of the bed. 

Sherlock stood up behind John. "Close your eyes," Sherlock instructed and grabbed John's hands, pulling them behind his back and holding them. "Walk, we're going into the bathroom. Keep your eyes closed while you walk." He directed John into the bathroom and stood him in front of the sink. "Do not open your eyes," Sherlock said as he reached for a flannel which he wet and he began to clean John's wounds gently. He cleaned the wounds the other man had left, he cleaned John's new ones. He reached into the cupboard and got some salve. He covered his fingers with it and gingerly touched the red marks on John's back, arms, wrists and arse. Then he reached around John's body and touched his fingers to his bite mark before doing the same to the one on John's hip. He dipped the fingers of his right hand into the salve again and slid them down John's arse crack to between his legs, trusting that John's skin there was probably already very tender. Then he placed his left hand once again over the bite on John's hip. "Keep your eyes closed. What is my hand touching, John?"

John stumbled lightly as he walked slowly towards the bathroom, his eyes squeezed shut. He was nervous, wondering why Sherlock had brought him here and what he was about to do. When he was touched again, it was gentle and cool. He sighed lightly and relaxed into the healing -- it felt very good. A different kind of good. He tensed only when Sherlock's hand moved his arse, relaxing fully again only when his hand was on his hip again. "Your mark," he breathed in answer.   

"Good," Sherlock's voice was low. He kept his hand over his first mark while he pressed his hips against John's slick skin. His cock was against John's lower back and he could feel the way the top of his buttocks curved, and Sherlock slid himself ever so slightly against that curve. He kept slowly moving, barely moving it seemed, steadily. "Open your eyes, John. Look at me in the mirror."

John blinked his eyes open, flushing at the sight of his own face, especially with what they were doing. He moved his eyes quickly to Sherlock's reflection. 

Sherlock locked eyes with John in the mirror. "Keep watching me." Everything that had been building in Sherlock -- since the first moment he knew there was another man -- was about to explode. He wanted to be what John wanted, he wanted to give John what he needed. Sherlock kept rubbing up and down against John, closing his eyes, and letting his hand slip down to grip his cock. He was panting against John's still body, his hand increasing the pleasure of the friction of John's skin. "John" was the only word he could make as he came over John's back. He dipped his head out of John's view, breathing into John's shoulder blades, trying to calm himself. He picked the flannel back up, wiped John's skin and his hand and looked at John in the mirror. He swallowed and said, "This is the last command I am going to give you tonight. Turn around."

John bit his lip, trying very hard to keep still. It was very hard with Sherlock grinding against him like that. He couldn't help closing his eyes when Sherlock came all over him. He didn't open them again until he was being cleaned up and asked to turn around. He turned slowly, looking at Sherlock. 

Sherlock leaned in, cupping John's face in his hands, and kissed John full on his mouth. He let his tongue slide in to meet John's. He let one hand fall to John's cock, which he slowly stroked. He left John's lips and bent down to take his cock into his mouth. Sherlock lifted one of John's hands and held it on his head as he sucked John.

"Sherlock . . ." John moaned, leaning against the sink. 

Sherlock worked his mouth on John's cock, relaxing his throat as he had instructed John to do earlier. He swallowed it down quickly, then pulled back to lick the tip and get his breath. He continued taking John in. He reached down to pull gently on John's balls.

"Cl -- close . . . may I . . . please?"

Sherlock hummed "Come, John."

John groaned and gripped the sink, coming hard and calling out Sherlock's name. 

Sherlock felt the thick liquid down his throat. He sat back on his knees and wiped his mouth. So much had happened. His head was blurry from it all, his bones ached. "I love you, John," he said, without looking up.

John ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair lightly. "I love you, too," he said softly. 

Sherlock stood up and slipped his arms around John's body. "Will you sleep in my bed tonight?" Sherlock asked. It was a question. A question John could answer with a yes or no.

"Of course," John murmured. 

Sherlock smiled and led John back to the bedroom. They slid under the covers. Sherlock wanted to curl into John, wanted John to hold him. He saw his mark on John's chest. He thought his eyes might be wet, but he didn't want to think so he closed them. He wanted softness for now and nuzzled into John's arms. "Say something, please," he whispered.

"What do you want me to say?" John asked quietly, bringing a hand up to stroke his hair. 

"Was it . . . okay?" Sherlock asked.

"Excellent," John smiled. He kissed the top of Sherlock's head. "Were . . . were you okay with it?"

"I would not do anything I wasn't okay with," Sherlock said. "But it's given me some things to think about. But not now."

"Like what?" John mused. 

"Like how easily I took to it, how I didn't stop to think. How much _he_ bothered me . . . what those things mean . . ." Sherlock let his voice trail off and kept his eyes closed.

"Talk to me," John murmured. "We can figure it out together."

"You said it'd be hard to hurt someone you love . . . " Sherlock thought back to earlier today -- it felt like so long ago -- when he'd discovered the blood on John's bed. That worry -- that was when Sherlock knew he loved John. "I know I love you, but I didn't struggle. . . what does that say about me?"

"It doesn't say anything about you, Sherlock. You refused to say mean things to me . . .you took care of my wounds . . . you gave me what I needed and remained . . . loving the whole time."

That seemed all right to Sherlock. It was just new, it was just something new he had never done before. He closed his eyes again and relaxed into John. The room was quiet, and he could hear John's heart beating. And then from the floor, the phone in John's trouser pocket made a sound.

John glanced over towards the sound. "I'll get that later," he said. 

"It could be him," Sherlock said. "You said you had to go."

"I'm not going to keep seeing him now," John said.

"You don't have to stop . . . if you don't want to," Sherlock said quietly. "I don't want you to stop something you like . . . because of me."

"If you're saying you can't do this anymore, I don't care. I don't want to see him anymore. I love you," John insisted.

Sherlock wasn't sure what he was trying to say. He wasn't saying he wouldn't do it again. He had done it because he wanted to give John what he wanted. That was what was most important. But Sherlock did not want John to keep going to see the other man. He knew he did not want John to want to keep going. He swallowed. "I want to be enough for you." Now he knew: _that_ was what he was trying to say.

John bit his lip and pressed a hard kiss on the top of his head. "You are so much more than enough, Sherlock. Please don't ever forget that," he murmured. 

"So do I belong to you now as well?" Sherlock asked as he laced his hand with John's. "Even without a mark?"

"I'd like that," John smiled, squeezing his hand back. 

"Are you okay to sleep? Do you still hurt?"

"Sleep sounds really nice," John nodded. 

"One more question," Sherlock blushed. "Tomorrow . . . things will be regular between us, yes? Not exactly the same, obviously. I mean, the stuff tonight . . . that'll just be for us, in this room, not . . . not all the time, right? Tomorrow when I ask you to hand me the tea that's sitting right next to me, you'll just tell me to bugger off, like always, right?"

John couldn't help laughing. "Yes, love, everything will be the same. We can have a code word or something," he said. 

Sherlock smiled. "Kiss me once more before sleep . . . please."

John shifted a bit lower, tilted Sherlock's head up and pressed a kiss on his lips. 

The last kiss was soft. There were many sides to John. And to Sherlock. And now to John and Sherlock together.


End file.
